


When All Other Lights Go Out

by pennflinn



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, POV Multiple, War of the Ring, can be read as platonic or romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24236881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennflinn/pseuds/pennflinn
Summary: A snapshot of some of the Fellowship’s darkest moments — war, captivity, helplessness — and the things that point them back toward the dawn.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Frodo Baggins & Sam Gamgee, Gimli (Son of Glóin) & Legolas Greenleaf, Merry Brandybuck & Pippin Took, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	When All Other Lights Go Out

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set largely in book-verse, with one notable exception: I’ve borrowed the Evenstar necklace (and the scene of it shattering before the Battle of the Black Gate) from the movies, because it fit the theme I was exploring and I think it’s a great device.
> 
> Relationships are left ambiguous; feel free to interpret as platonic or romantic as suits your fancy.
> 
> Enjoy!

Pippin lay in terrified silence, not daring to move — not even to scratch his chin, which was terribly itchy. He’d scraped it as an Orc had thrown him to the ground their first day of captivity, and it really was becoming a bother. No more a bother than anything else, if he was being honest, but still noticeable when it was imperative to stay as still and as quiet as possible.

_ I shan’t forget; payment is only put off _ , one of the large Uruks had said. Pippin knew that he and Merry were wanted alive and  _ unspoiled _ , but the threat still loomed over him. He’d felt the sting of the whip-lashes on his skin, and he was expecting it to return at any moment. The Orcs were a restless bunch; what if they decided they needed entertainment during their long rest?

He scrunched up his face. No, best not to think of what might be waiting for him. Best not to cry. Who knew how many more kicks and lashes and sneers he might endure if he showed any weakness of that sort?

_ Payment is only put off. _

The Orc had repeated the sentiment just before, when he’d kicked Pippin so savagely to the ground it had taken Pippin a full ten seconds to draw in another breath.  _ You’ll be wishing for death by the end, especially with that stunt you pulled.  _ And with a farewell kick, the Orc had turned his back, and Pippin had lain motionless ever since. So it was, these days and nights that blended together.

It was a wretched thing, too, what he’d done. What had he been thinking, running away from the pack like that only to throw away that brooch? Aside from his Elven cloak, it was the only thing he had left to remind him of better times, of happy places. The only thing he had left to remind him that there was hope left in the world, and hope for  _ him _ — a foolish young Hobbit trapped in a story he had never anticipated.

“Hey, Pip.” As he’d descended into his spiral, staring unseeingly up at the stars above them, he hadn’t noticed Merry crawling painstakingly his way. “How are you holding up?” He coughed, an awful, hacking cough. They both needed water.

“Well, if I thought an adventure would be fun,” Pippin said, “I wasn’t imagining this. That’s for certain.”

“You didn’t picture this?” Merry croaked, attempting some semblance of a smile. “Why on earth not?”

Pippin continued staring blankly up. Not even Merry’s attempts to cheer him up could penetrate that pit of despair opening up in his stomach, threatening to overwhelm him whenever they stopped for a rest.

“Now, now, Pippin,” Merry said. “Chin up. They didn’t hurt you too badly today, did they?”

“No,” Pippin said miserably. “But I threw it away, Merry. The brooch. And now I suppose it’s lost forever. I don’t know why, but I felt protected by it somehow — by all of that magic of the wood. And now that’s gone, and I don’t believe I have anything left.”

“Nonsense,” Merry said. “Once we’re out of this mess, we’ll march straight back to Lady Galadriel and get you a new one. Maybe she’ll throw in a few of those daggers as well, since I’m not sure we’ll ever see ours again, and I’d rather have something other than a brooch to pin my safety on.”

“Hey,” shouted an Orc to their right. “Quit your chattering. Save your breath for dawn — you’ll need it for the next march.”

“Oh, it’s not dawn yet, is it?” Merry muttered, but the comment was rewarded with a none-too-restrained kick to the side. Merry wheezed, crumpling in on himself.

In spite of himself, Pippin found himself scrambling to his elbows, an awkward feat with his hands tied as they were in front of him. “Leave him alone!” he said.

The Orc turned his gaze on Pippin. One eye was swollen nearly shut, outlined by what appeared to be tooth marks. “What, you want a piece of it as well?” He jerked toward Pippin, and Pippin recoiled back into the dirt. The blow never came, but he heard the Orc laughing a few moments more before turning away.

Once he was sure the Orc was gone, Pippin uncurled himself and reached cautiously for Merry, who was still sputtering and coughing.

“Are you alright?”

Instead of answering outright, Merry just smiled wanly and wriggled closer to Pippin, so that their arms touched. “I s’pose we’ll have to clean ourselves up a bit before seeing Lady Galadriel again,” he said, continuing their previous conversation in a whisper now. “But I bet there’ll be a feast, Pip. Imagine that.” He reached up, what appeared almost an unconscious action, and touched the brooch at his throat. “It will be good to see her again, at any rate.”

Pippin tried to imagine it too, and tried to ignore the hollow space near his own throat where his brooch had once been. He wasn’t altogether successful. While the stars stared pitilessly down, he pressed his arm closer to Merry’s.

* * *

The moment could not be undone, once it was in motion — Aragorn’s reflex too slow, the realization delayed. He could only watch, as in a dream, the Evenstar necklace slip from him and collide with the stone floor.

It might have been beautiful: a million tiny stars, shimmering for once in the daylight, brighter even than the torches that lined the hall. The pieces of the necklace scattered, fine as dust, at Aragorn’s feet.

Often he’d touched the necklace in recent weeks, feeling its delicate form beneath the pads of his fingers or taking comfort in the way it pressed against his chest during long nights in the wilderness.

_ Home, _ it whispered to him, when he held it. It was not a word he was used to, not a word he’d identified with as had Legolas, or Gimli, or the Hobbits. Home was not a concept he clung to, yet the necklace wrapped him in the word, and the voice calling to him was Arwen’s.

He knelt, his heart still pumping fear through his veins. He pressed his palm flat to the stones, feeling the broken remains of the Evenstar shift under his touch. But he knew, as soon as he saw it shatter, that there was no putting it back together. He would have to ride without it, and already he felt its absence.

In his dreams he saw it shatter again, and again — and even when Arwen appeared in his unconscious visions he feared that she would slip away too.  _ I’m here _ , she said in dreams, but still he pictured that voice that whispered  _ home  _ dissolving into a million little stars.

* * *

Éowyn found Faramir with two halves of a great horn, standing by a window and gazing out at the reddening sky. She had tried to keep him away from the windows since the great company had left for Morannon, knowing that gazing toward that dark land would only impede his recovery — though she could hardly hold him accountable when she was unable to keep herself away.

“It’s a beautiful piece,” she said as she joined him at the window, nodding at the horn. The horn was neatly split in two, but even so the white body and silver inscriptions shone as if new-made. Someone had taken great care in polishing the broken thing.

“It was my brother’s,” Faramir said without looking up.

Éowyn looked up at him, curious if he would say more. “Boromir,” she supplied.

Faramir nodded. “It was said that the call of this horn would not go unheeded, not if it was blown within the realm of Gondor. Boromir had it with him when he fell. He died valiantly.”

Éowyn had heard scraps, mostly from Merry during their long rides together and their moments of rest in camp in the evenings, far enough away from the other men so as to not arouse suspicion. Faramir had spoken about his brother as well, though little about his death.

“A worthy companion for a brave man,” Éowyn said. “May I?”

Faramir nodded, and Éowyn carefully took one half of the horn and turned it over in the one hand not impeded by a sling.

“In many ways, it was a symbol of hope for us,” Faramir continued. “As was Boromir. To see this broken was a grave blow, and it remains so.” He paused. “I am the last of my family, now. It is a different world that my people are marching into tonight, and it will be a different world regardless of the outcome at the Black Gate. I am not my brother, and I am not my father. I do not have a Great Horn to inspire my people or rally support, and I’m afraid I feel quite useless standing here waiting for a call that will never come.”

Éowyn set the first broken half of the horn down on the window ledge, then gently took the second from Faramir’s grip and set it beside. Then, wordlessly, she took Faramir’s hand in her own and held it tight, and the two of them stared off together into the oncoming dark.

* * *

It was not an altogether unfamiliar feeling, the feeling of knowing that the arms of death were open wide. Waiting, waiting for the dawn when the soldiers would walk straight into them. Gimli was not too naive to believe that he was invincible in battle. Part of the thrill was in the challenge of the thing. And yet:

“The air feels different.” Legolas echoed Gimli’s thoughts even as he was having them. If Gimli didn’t know better, and he  _ did _ , he would’ve guessed that the Elf could read his thoughts. “Usually the Men are restless. Tonight they’re quiet.”

“It’s because they know tomorrow is the last day of their lives,” Gimli said, taking another puff of the pipe Peregrin had so graciously filled for him. Where had that Hobbit run off to? Gimli could never keep track of him — he would have to do better tomorrow, as futile as that may be. “They know that they are walking into a trap. Isn’t that why we’re sitting here together?”

Legolas considered this, looking into the small fire they tended. “Perhaps.”

The camp  _ was  _ quiet, the Men clustered in small groups or else sitting alone and gazing West. Aragorn had dismissed those who had lost heart; these were the many, and yet too few, who had agreed to sacrifice themselves on a fool’s errand at the gates of Mordor. The battle tomorrow would be their last, undoubtedly. That was the whole point, wasn’t it?

“I did not think our road would end like this,” Legolas said, and he looked so contemplative, and so sad, that Gimli felt compelled to offer him the pipe. Legolas declined with a half-smile. “Yet we must not believe that though it is inevitable, it is in vain.”

Gimli took another few puffs and blew the smoke rings out over the fire, where they vanished in seconds. He blew out a few more, but they too disappeared much too quickly. He grunted and put the pipe down, feeling the smoke grate at the back of his throat.

“I have one regret,” the Dwarf said at last. “And that is not bringing along my gift from the Lady Galadriel.”

Legolas tilted his head. “The strands of hair?”

“Bright and beautiful they are,” Gimli said. “I left them in Minas Tirith in the care of Master Brandybuck. I didn’t deem the gift essential for this last journey, but I regret it now.”

Legolas’ quizzical look deepened. “And why is that?”

Gimli hesitated. “It’s a silly thing,” he finally said. “But I would’ve liked to have had them with me, in the end. Or even now, just to hold and look at and remember the bright things of the world before we meet the darkness.”

The fire popped between them. Somewhere farther off, someone was humming an old tune. “I understand,” Legolas said. “I hope you can find something else to bring you comfort.”

“Aye,” Gimli said, shifting anxiously. He could feel the absence keenly — that space on his breast where Lady Galadriel’s gift had been tucked away. “And to you, the same.”

Instead of the pipe, Gimli tried gnawing on a piece of salt pork, but the toughness annoyed him, so he put it, too, away in a huff. Through this, Legolas stayed still. After a few more seconds, the Elf joined in the humming that still drifted from elsewhere in camp, though the Elf’s voice was so soft that Gimli was sure he was the only one who could hear. He sat back and watched the fire, and listened to Legolas’ soothing voice, and thought of that gift that lay so many miles away, which had remained so close to his chest until the moment he needed it the most.

* * *

The air was thin around Frodo and Sam as they clutched at each other. The heat was unbearable, and with each minute they were forced to scuttle a few inches higher on their rock outcropping to avoid the lava that crept down the mountainside.

It was well and truly the end, Frodo knew. He’d suspected for a while that there was no going home, but facing it at last still had a dreamlike quality. No one is prepared to die, not really; imagination could not prepare for sprawling on jagged rock, smelling smoke and burned things, watching lava trawling the earth for any signs of remaining life. The moment made Frodo dizzy, and yet he supposed the sensation could also be related to the lightness of no longer carrying his burden, the strange relief of being rid of something you cherished so deeply it almost killed you.

“Let me bandage your finger, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, already busy inspecting his own shirt for a clean portion to tear. No part of them had been even remotely clean for days, but the action still made Frodo smile. Ever his Sam, even to the end.

“It’s not so bad, Sam; really,” Frodo said, which was half-true. He had the finger — or, rather, what was left of his finger — pressed against the remains of his shirt to staunch what bleeding he could. The bloodstain on his shirt had grown so wide it looked as though he’d been stabbed. But, miraculously, the pain had receded to a dull throb, perhaps sensing its own insignificance.

“I wish you’d at least let me take a look at it,” Sam mumbled. His eyes were slightly unfocused; he’d taken a few hard blows to the head, and blood still gleamed sickly on his temple in the firelight. “Although I don’t s’pose it’s much use anyway.”

“I don’t suppose it is,” Frodo echoed.

A few minutes later, when Sam sank backward to lie supine on the rock, Frodo joined him silently. The reasoning was unspoken but understood. Sitting upright was simply too taxing, and the Hobbits had spent their last reserves of energy. As Frodo’s back met the stone, he felt consciousness draining out of him and onto the mountainside.

They’d been lying there a few speechless moments before Sam’s voice came, in a croaked whisper. “It’s so dark,” he said. Frodo didn’t have to look over to know that he was crying. “I thought the world was supposed to look lighter with the evil out of it.”

Frodo watched the skies, the black smoke intercut by occasional streaks of flame.

“I don’t suppose you have Lady Galadriel’s gift?” Sam continued. “The Star-glass?”

“No,” Frodo said, whose mind was now becoming so muddled that he couldn’t recall what had become of the gift. “I don’t suppose it survived our trip up the mountain.”

“That’s a shame.” Sam sniffed. “What was it that she told you when she gave it to you?”

Frodo reached back through his memory, clawing through weeks of drudgery and pain in search of something more fair. The person he found in Lothlórien no longer seemed to be himself, but somehow still the words arranged themselves.

“ _ May it be a light to you in dark places _ ,” he said at last, “ _ when all other lights go out. _ ”

“Well,” Sam said, sniffling again, “I wish we had it now. This is a dark place if ever I saw one.”

Frodo considered this, continued gazing upward into the black. Then he turned his head sideways to look at Sam. His dear Sam, battered beyond belief, fresh tear tracks on his face betraying his ever-persistent search for hope.  _ May it be a light to you in dark places _ , Galadriel’s voice repeated itself.

Frodo reached out with his good hand and found Sam’s. With a squeeze, he tried to communicate those words again. Tried to tell him that perhaps the light did not come from the stars after all, or from something as fragile as glass. That perhaps it was not something that could be gifted or given or so easily lost.  


The sky continued to rain fire. The world — or, at least, their world — continued to end.

Sam closed his eyes. Contemplated. And, after a second more, squeezed Frodo’s hand in return.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really loved writing this piece, so I hope you enjoyed; please leave a comment below if you did!
> 
> To clarify, the Phial of Galadriel does survive Mount Doom, but you can choose to interpret the last section as either a slight deviation from canon or just confusion/exhaustion on the Hobbits’ part. You must forgive them — they’ve just climbed a mountain!
> 
> Hope everyone is staying well. See you all soon.
> 
> \- Penn


End file.
